


Jeeves and the Pulchritudinous Plumage

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bertie has tiny vestigial canary yellow wings, Bird/Human Hybrids, Boss/Employee Relationship, Class Differences, Class Issues, Crack Treated Seriously, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Jeeves has massive manly pigeon wings, Kissing, M/M, Makeup Sex, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oil Gland Kink, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Shame, Tails, Valeting, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Wing Worship, Wingfic, Wings, ain't got no time for bird sex... except when it's with your valet, even Jeeves has his limits, hierarchical dymorphism, if you can imagine such a thing, internalized prejudice, leading to, re: plumage, specifically tailfeathers, wing groping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-16 10:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: In a world where the higher one is on the social ladder, the smaller and more decorative/less functional one's wings are, young Bertram Wooster finds himself thoroughly fascinated by the grace and beauty of his valet's strong, practical, utterly captivating feathered appendages.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote most of this eons ago and just found the file on my old hard drive and thought i'd fix it up and post it for kicks  
> first time writing this fandom/pairing/p.o.v.  
> or wingfic at all, as far as i can remember

* * *

I’d never gone about noticing Jeeves’s wings before. I mean to say, I’d seen them – he couldn’t possibly hope to hide them with them being as bally enormous as they are – but fellows don’t go about studying one another’s plumage as a rule, least of all when the wings so clearly show off a man’s station. Not that I look down on my man Jeeves, of course – I don’t mean that for a minute – but the biological fact of the matter is that my lot, with all the comforts of the good life, haven’t had wingspans more than two or three feet since the early part of the eighteenth-century.

Jeeves’s wings, which could spread to over six feet, easily, unlike my own short, cheerful yellow ones, were what a chum of mine once called ‘dull pigeon grey.’ I hadn’t considered their breadth or their strength, primarily because to do so would be a bit funny in the sense of peculiar, but also because Jeeves kept them tucked close to his body. I’d never seen him have so much as a flap when the wind ruffled him – whereas I tend to flutter when it suits me, and one couldn’t walk within two feet of some of the Drones when the seasons changed without being covered in down. I only came to notice J’s w.’s at all on account of a brute of a man who accused me of making eyes at his wife at a misery of a garden fete, which I had not as she was an awful little spider of a woman with all the humor of dead fish. Her porcine lout of a husband nevertheless took my inquiry as to the fillings of a particular tea sandwich to be proof of an immoral passion and threatened to beat me to a fine pulp if I didn’t immediately apologize for my alleged designs on Mrs. Porcine Lout, and leave the party without my sandwiches, which I had been informed were deviled ham.

Mr. P. L. pulled back his tree trunk of an arm and sent it on a collision course with the old Wooster dial – and my teeth stood a good chance of being knocked clear out of my gourd – when a huge, muscled appendage bowled the antagonist over with ease. _Thwunk._ The sound of feathers cutting effortlessly through the air and colliding hard with the man’s jaw in a clip rough enough to leave a mark, turned a few heads. Jeeves positioned himself between me and the fellow. Said fellow turned to my valet and glared, his own glossy black wings flapping in irritation. The moment passed quickly into more familiar territory, with Jeeves giving the man a thorough scolding and sending him on his merry way, but yours truly missed most of that exchange on account of being struck dumb with wonder at the raw power packed into a blow from Jeeves’s wing. He’d pulled the – could you call it a punch when there wasn’t a hand involved? He could’ve taken the adversary’s head clean off, if he’d meant to.

After that – well, it became something like that old quip about alligators or water buffalo or what-have-you. Namely, not thinking of said a.’s or w. b.’s when instructed, being impossible as, to avoid the subject in question, one must first consider it. To put it differently, my valet’s wings became something of a fixation in the proceeding weeks. I began to notice all sorts of funny little gestures he tried to disguise. I noted how he puffed up when I found myself in the soup and I required him to come to my defense. I noticed how he kept his balance, adjusting for his every movement with nigh imperceptible movements. I noticed that, for all the rot people liked to talk of the ugliness of pigeon’s wings, they were surprisingly sleek. In the right light, the warm grey hue was flecked with green and violet iridescence, and the sight was far from plain, if you took the time to really look.

The same dazzling display carried on into Jeeves’ tailfeathers, though I paid those little attention (although, admittedly, more than was strictly cricket.) They were straight and long and neatly tapered, folded elegantly over his rump in a modest ruff of silver. My own sprig of golden plumage was small in comparison – a vestigial puff of downy yellow, scarcely useful save for providing a destination for the hand of a questing paramour.

That’s where the fascination really began. My plumage was little more than an afterthought. Woosters couldn’t fly – I didn’t know anyone who could save for those who occupied the same, or lower, status than my gentleman’s gentleman. Now that I’d come to know it, I couldn’t find his feathers anything less than delightful. 

* * *

 

For weeks, all I could do was stare at his wings. At first, I thought Jeeves didn’t notice, but then, nothing escapes his notice – not really. He was letting me _think_ he didn’t notice, but he did – the folded appendages would twitch under my gaze, the movement so subtle I’d have never caught on had I not been leering at him. What this meant, I couldn’t say, and he refused to, so the two of us just ignored it like the proverbial elephant in the china shop.

Things changed when we had been cajoled into visiting one of my innumerable relations in their country estate. The residence was stately and fine, but close to the coast, and the weather was miserable. We found ourselves caught in something of a conundrum when a terrible wind swept Jeeves’s hat clear off his head, and damn near took me along with it. I stumbled, and immediately a sturdy wing shot out to steady me, shielding me from the weather and enveloping me like a huge… well, envelope, I suppose, cupped _just so_ about my shoulders. As soon as I regained my footing, Jeeves recoiled, and I found myself wishing he hadn’t. The dexterity and speed with which he’d caught me was a marvel unexpected even of his impressive physique, and I felt a startling rush of jealousy that his wings could be of such use to him. Had our positions been reversed, my own increasingly inferior yellow pair would’ve been as good as useless. The realization made me feel a bit soupy, and I sulked all the way back to the estate. So green was my onion with envy that it was only after we were back in the well-furnished guest room, safe and sound, with Jeeves laying out my evening wear, that I noticed the state of his feathers. They were poking out at all sorts of funny angles, and looked dashed uncomfortable.

“I say, old thing, your flap-flaps are a bit mangled, what?”

Having never commented on Jeeves’s wings before, I didn’t know how he’d react. Most of my school chums used to talk of theirs’ with disinterest, but the way Jeeves reddened you’d have thought I’d asked him something downright filthy.

“It is no trouble, sir. The weather simply set a few of my feathers askew, but I assure you it is nothing to worry about.”

“Nonsense - why Jeeves, it looks positively painful! If that feels anything like it does with I start… m… mouldering?”

“Molting, sir.”

“Precisely – well, I can’t sit idly by and watch as you suffer.”

With that, I reached out and plucked out one of the badly broken feathers. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Jeeves uttered a distinctly un-Jeevesian yelp, and his wings gave a quick, hard flap that startled me quite badly, sent a small flurry of feathers into the air, and knocked over a table lamp.

“Steady on! There’s no need for a take off!” I laughed, but found Jeeves looking quite grim indeed.

“I’m sorry, sir… I was –”

“Say no more, old fruit. But here, let me take a gander at straightening the rest of these out, what?”

“Sir, there’s no need –!” Jeeves began, but his protests died when I returned to fussing with his feathers. The muscles of his broad back were tight as a bowstring, and his wings were actually quivering under my touch.

I came to realize something, in a slow, muzzy way. There was a certain _thingness_ about having my palms sunk wrist-deep in silky feathers – those huge, powerful wings beneath my hands – that left me startlingly, outrageously affected. I raked my fingers through said h. p. w.’s , smoothing and stroking until they returned to their sleek, tidy state. I found I didn’t want to withdraw my hands, and some time passed with me simply admiring and appreciating the expanse of warm grey before I realized that my valet had gone mute, and was still thrumming with some sort of palpable anxiety. Worried his wings were hurt more than he claimed, I broached the subject.

“I say, Jeeves, you’re terribly tense. Is something the matter with your underdown?”

I reached under his wings to where the white, baby-soft down was hidden, and found them dripping wet to the touch. I jumped, surprised, and Jeeves jumped too, putting some distance between us immediately and smoothing down the front of his jacket with shaking hands.

“Gosh, you’re not bleeding are you?” I asked, but even as I said it I realized it couldn’t be so, as my hands were covered with a greasy substance. I stared at it, uncomprehending. It was clearish, and smelled musky and clean all at once. Slippery, with an amber sheen to it as I turned my hand in the light.

“What the devil is this, then?”

Jeeves seemed to deflate a bit, and his voice held a note of shame in it.

“Just… my oil, sir.”

The tips of his ears were very pink, I noticed.

I considered my own wings. They’ve always been quite dry, and so I use a product called Faraday’s Feather Slick to keep them glossy and smelling like roses. I’d never considered why Jeeves didn’t smell like a particular brand, Faraday’s or that dreadful American stuff that some of the Drones imported.

“You mean, you make your own?” I asked, astonished, and Jeeves nodded. I had no time to appreciate the marvel before he spoke.

“It’s not uncommon for a man of my… background, sir.”

Oh. Oh blast. It was one of those unmentionable things, like the wingspan all over again. I hadn’t considered that it could be due to ones standing in life.

“It smells rather good,” I said, to lighten the mood, and because it really did smell quite pleasant, in an earthy, rich sort of way. I stepped forward again, feeling around under Jeeves’s quivering wings until my fingers found the small, leaking nubbly bits. I pinched one gently and felt it squirt a hot spurt of oil out in response. Jeeves made a strangled sound.

“Sir, I must protest –!”

“Oh, come off it, Jeeves, it’s perfectly appropriate to get oiled up after you’ve got your feathers out of order. I should know – I remember there was this one time that I got a bit of taffy in my down and had to have it cut out, if you believe it, cut – and –”

Jeeves pulled away, trembling, his wings drawn ‘round him like a huge, feathered shield. He looked ill – a combination of pale white and blotchy red trying to occupy the same space on his face.

“I say, are you alright, old fruit?”

He managed a nod, muttered a quick something about needing a bit of rest, and absconded at extraordinarily high speed, leaving me, bewildered, in his wake. I brought my dripping hand to my face and sniffed it – it really did have a corking aroma, like a very fine cologne with an underlying natural maleness that stirred the blood. I sank, light-headed, onto my bed, suddenly warm and, distressingly, more than a little eager down below. I glanced at the door, and back at my oiled hand, and then I did something I’m rather ashamed of, which, needless to say, involved the locking of said d. and the creative application of said o. h. to certain parts of the Wooster corpus, the less that’s said of which, the better. I washed in the guest room’s rustic little basin afterwards, more than a bit confounded by the sudden turn of events. I’ll admit, I have occasionally entertained… unsuitable thoughts of my valet – the sort of thoughts I haven’t had in excess since my schooldays – but I have always refrained from following through, as it were, because it struck me as dishonorable to sully Jeeves in this way, and without him knowing. Not that I wanted him knowing, of course – that would be dashed awkward, what? – but I didn’t want to go about it without being altogether sure that he wouldn’t take offense. As there was no way to know without him needing to know as well, I refrained entirely, until this business with the heavenly-smelling oil.

I unlocked the door and waited for long enough to realize Jeeves wasn’t coming back to dress me, so, concerned for the health of my gentleman’s gentleman, and hoping I hadn’t aggravated an underlying wing injury in my ill-fated attempt to help him preen, I got my evening things on – swapping out the understated navy necktie for a new cherry red one I’d been saving for a day I needed a bit of cheering up. The whole affair with Jeeves and his wings had left me feeling soupy and guilty and maudlin all at once. As I was knotting the aforementioned necktie, I spotted an enormous grey feather, undoubtedly of Jeevesian origin, discarded on the ground. It was flecked with shiny bits of purple and specks of green, and was strong and straight and full. I picked it up and felt the weight of it, and then dithered a bit, as I hated the thought of leaving it where it could be trod on, but I couldn’t go about holding it _ad infinitum._ Desperately, I stuck it between the pages of my latest mystery novel, and promptly forgot about it entirely – until the day I didn’t, when the presence of said feather very nearly caused a permanent separation between the young master and his valet...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wound up needing an extra chapter to get to the smut.
> 
> So the shit will hit the fan in the next chapter, but there will also be sex. Hopefully.
> 
> Also many misunderstandings re: wings and class still have to come about so it will probably wind up being a larger chapter.

* * *

After the acquisition of the feather, my private habits vis-a-vis relief changed dramatically. I began tracing the tip of the feather over my hands and wrists, teasing along the veins in my arms, and moving gradually on to gentle, well-timed flicks against bits that enjoyed being flicked, or tickles against bits that enjoyed being tickled. At first, the guilt near crippled me, but as time wore on, I found I didn't feel so miserable for quite so long after such moments of personal… attention. I was becoming accustom to the brush of that feather - so much so that one day, I must have left it sitting on my nightstand, or tangled in the coverlet, or possibly fallen on the floor.

This proved to be the catalyst of a series of increasingly distressing events, culminating in an ending that - well, I shan't spoil it, but it's a corker, what?

I noticed, one evening, that the feather was not in its usual place. I found this unusual, but thought little of it and hurried things along in the traditional way, whereupon my mind was gooey enough that I didn’t much care where _any_ of my belongings happened to be.

It came to mind again a week later or thereabouts, when I, casual in my curiosity, asked Jeeves if he could fly.

“Fly, sir?” he repeated, strangely pink.

“Yes, you know. Flap the old wings and take to the sky, that sort of thing!”

“No, sir. I cannot fly.”

He said it with such finality as he went to clear the table that it struck me as considerably sad.

“You’ve never tried?” I blurted out, and Jeeves paused.

“I have no need to try, sir. My wings are clipped.”

I gasped aloud.

“Clipped? But why would you? Good lord, if I could fly my feet would never touch the ground!”

“It is typical for one of my station, sir. I assure you, the procedure is painless – it is no different than going to the barber for a trim. He is the one who does the deed, on the same occasion as my hair is cut.”

“Well, that may be, but I don’t like it. You ought to be showing your wings off, not mutilating them and leaving them crippled. I mean to say! It’s not on, Jeeves. It won’t do.”

Jeeves, map shifting from rose to beet, allowed himself a strange sort of tender smile, shaking his head.

“The young master is too kind, of course.”

“I’m serious – your wings are bally gorgeous!”

At this, he seemed to startle, evidently thinking the conversation was a roundabout way of reprimanding him.

“Sir, I am sorry for the feather I dropped in your room – it was an accident of poor preening for which I sincerely apologize –” he babbled, speaking at a speed more suited for a runaway freight train that had somehow learned the English language than a gentleman’s gentleman.

“What did you do with it, old thing? I’ve been looking for days now.”

“Do with…?”

“Your feather. I’d like it back, if it’s still about the place.”

Jeeves looked at me with eyes wide as dinner plates.

“Back, sir?” he whispered, in a small voice. “I – it’s not possible. It has gone. I disposed of it.”

“Well, pluck me out another, then, there’s a good fellow! We can make a trade of it, if you like. One of mine for one of yours.”

“Sir, I – are you… are you sure? I mean – would…”

Poor old Jeeves, I thought. Does he really think so little of his own plumage?

“Go on, let’s. I’d like to very much.”

My valet nodded and, with shaking hands, tugged one of his feathers free with a wince. It was as pretty as the last, straight and full. I grinned, a touch too eager as I grabbed it.

“Here you are, old fruit.”

I tried to reach for my own wing but came up short, fingers catching on air. Giving up, I turned and presented my back to him.

“You’ll have to pluck it yourself, I fear.”

Jeeves reached for my wings hesitantly and I waited for the sting of loss – only to feel a thrill at the touch of his fingers. I flapped in excitement, peering over my shoulder.

“Tickles a bit,” I forced out with a strained chuckle, increasingly glad I was facing _away_ from prying eyes. My wings were giving away more than enough, fluttering and batting at Jeeves’s hands. My tailfeathers gave a damning twitch.

At last, the sharp pain briefly stung. I turned around, covering the Wooster lap with a convenient cushion in what I hoped was a subtle maneuver.  Jeeves was staring at the wispy yellow feather pinched between his thumb and index finger, turning it over slowly, brow furrowed.

“Doesn’t have much on yours, I will admit, but at least it’s a jolly colour, what?”

He nodded, smiling that tender smile again, and tucked it safely into his breast pocket.

“I’ll cherish it, sir.”

He seemed positively buoyant as he scurried from the room with the dishes. I shook my head in amusement. Jeeves could be peculiar sometimes – always seeing things the y. m. was too human to make heads or tails of. I looked down at the feather in my own grasp. When I’d praised it, Jeeves had acted like no one had ever given his plumage the time of day, which seemed a great injustice.

It was in this moment that I had a flash of inspiration – the kind which Jeeves takes great pains to teach me to ignore. Being as he was not in the vicinity, I accepted it as a perfectly grand idea. If Jeeves didn’t care for his feathers, I would simply have to prove to him that they were splendid, and I could think of no better way to begin than by a popular vote. I would invite some of my friends ‘round, and then get them to sing the praises of his wings. Surely with a whole room of gents telling him he had a fine pair of flap-flaps, there would be no way for him to maintain his front of humility, and maybe then I could get him to dispense with the clipping business once and for all.

Plan in place, I made haste to my bedroom and gave the feather a place of honour in the nightstand’s drawer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've broken the last chapter into two parts because I couldn't resist posting some of it early and don't have time to edit the whole thing this minute, so here's a bit of a tease. Next chapter will be pure, unadulterated smut. This one's a lot of petting. :P

* * *

I had no ill will in my heart when I invited some of the Drones ‘round under the excuse of having a few drinks. When I retrieved the feather and presented it to my friends, I had nothing but good intentions rattling ‘round the old onion. That said i. should be so bafflingly misunderstood is a testament, I think, to the general incomprehensibility of life’s mysteries.

For one thing, the other fellows didn’t share my enthusiasm for the plumage, which was, in retrospect, the first sign something was amiss.

“I know you mean jolly well by all this,” one of the Drones said sadly, “but pigeon feathers are pigeon feathers. You’ve hardly made a case for their beauty.”

The other men muttered their agreement. Distressed, I held the feather to the light.

“But look here, look how it shines all sorts of lovely colours!”

“It’s alright for what it is, but it’s got nothing on my girl’s – she’s got the most charming little white wings – fluffy as clouds.”

“My girl’s wings are too small,” another added, “but her tailfeathers more than make up for it.”

This prompted a licentious giggle to pass through the group, which bubbled awkwardly out of me in solidarity.

“The drinks, sir –” Jeeves began, gliding into the room, and then a good many things happened at once.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Jeeves, and the tray of drinks rattled dangerously as he came to a sudden and complete stop. I could sense immediately that something had gone rummy from the way he was changing from ruby red to nearly grey and back again. Then, with the slowness and controlled precision of an automaton, he set the tray down on the side table, turned, and exited the room.

“Uh oh – think we’ve stuck you in the soup, old thing,” one of the miscellaneous Drones said apologetically. All at once, there was a commotion as a room full of guests donned coats and hats and filed hastily out the door, leaving me s. in the s., as described.

I stared at the feather, which someone had dropped on the floor as they left, and I picked it up, frowning. Miserably, it had been trod upon, and was snapped. I rose unsteadily to my feet and set it on the side table next to the forgotten drinks.

“Jeeves?” I ventured, stepping tentatively out of the room. The door to his bedroom was shut tight as a bank vault. I cleared my throat. “I say, old thing, did I… did I do something I ought not to have done?”

Silence greeted me. I knocked on the door, words catching in my throat.

“Jeeves,” I repeated plaintively. “I don’t bally well know what it is I’ve done to upset you.”

I must have seemed adequately sincere, as the door opened at last and I was met with a look of thinly veiled mistrust.

“Sir, if you would permit me to speak freely –”

“Of course, old fruit. Speak away.”

“I have known you to be at times a difficult man, an infuriating man, and – dare I say, sir – something of a marvel of singular obtuseness, but never once have I known you to be cruel until today.”

“I don’t follow, old thing.”

“My _feather_ , sir,” Jeeves hissed, positively livid, “was given to you under the pretense of _fair exchange._ It was a private gift signifying –” at this, he paused, and shook his head. “It was not for your friends to ridicule, sir.”

I blinked at him, utterly at a loss.

“I’m utterly at a loss, Jeeves,” I said. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you – say, why’s your suitcase on the bed? You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

He purpled at this and turned away, wings tense and tight and trembling.

“Why would you do it, sir?” he said in a voice quite stricken and pained.

“Do _what?_ I was only trying to help you see how corking your wings are – get some of the lads to agree and maybe get you to stop having them clipped!”

“Servants’ wings are _always_ clipped, sir!” Jeeves reeled around, hair falling into disarray, eyes confoundingly wet. “They are clipped and they are plain and they are ugly, clumsy things, and under no circumstances are they the subject of interest of the master!”

It dawned on me that perhaps I’d made something of a social blunder.

“I should’ve put a stop to it earlier,” he continued miserably, “and for that I bear full responsibility – I should certainly have refused the exchange – but I was under the assumption – that is – I –”

I had never seen my valet so flustered before in my life. I struggled to understand what I’d done to wrong him so profoundly.

“But Jeeves, if it was so irregular, why in Heaven’s name did you let me go on about it?”

At this, he turned away again. I could see that he was terribly ashamed.

“I was flattered, sir,” he said softly. “I’d never – I have never known someone… To show such interest in a man’s wings is the responsibility of wives and sweethearts and I – I forgot myself.”

All at once, a great many things dawned on the young Bertram synonymously, if that’s the word I mean.

“Oh, you mean –”

“Don’t make me say it, sir. You may call me a paragon but I am only a man – I cannot stand more ridicule – I can’t –”

I don’t know what possessed me to run my fingers through his feathers, but he fell abruptly silent.

“I meant what I said, Jeeves,” I insisted. “Your wings are the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Sir –” he warned, breathlessly. Something in his voice was the ticket – I was completely bowled over by it.

“I mean it, Jeeves. I… I can’t stop thinking about them. The feathers of your wings and…”

I skimmed my knuckles over his tailfeathers, which jerked mightily in response.

“And these too.”

We were both breathing with some difficulty now, faces red, unsteady on our pins. My wings wouldn’t keep still, fluttering and shifting and itching to be touched the way I was touching Jeeves’s. Me! It was like a particularly spiffing dream, to have my hands on him and not have him pulling away. I dragged my fingers through his underdown and found the little, leaking nubs already tender and wet. Jeeves let out a broken little sound and slumped forwards, gripping the bed frame.

I wanted to say something – I wanted to say everything. I wanted him to know exactly how touching him was making me feel. Both of us were struck mute, however, by what I was beginning to consider a shared inclination that had me rubbing those nubs more firmly, pinching a bit and twisting just enough to get them pulsing hot oil over my fingers.

It smelled as glorious as the last time. I couldn’t help myself – I knelt and buried my face in the soft, white down and inhaled that intoxicating bouquet. I was dizzy and tingling all over. Being as my trousers were struggling to contain their usual occupant, I reached down to adjust said u. o. but gave up half way, letting the palm of my hand provide a little by way of relief through the fabric.

Jeeves’s oil smelled so sweet and marvelous that I leaned in for a taste, pushing feathers aside with my free hand, revealing the rosy, moist gland beneath. At the first press of my tongue, Jeeves’s wings gave a giddy flap and his tailfeathers rose so high they tickled my chin where I knelt.

“I say, old thing, this a bit of alright, what?” I managed, mouth coated and sticky.

“It is… agreeable, sir,” Jeeves conceded.

I sucked on the sensitive skin of his wing’s underside and dared to tug, gently, on his tailfeathers. His wings shot out and knocked everything off his dressing table and onto the floor. I reached around in front of him to confirm my suspicions and grinned dumbly into his plumage.

“That must feel dashed uncomfortable. Does it?” I asked, squeezing for emphasis.

“What – what would you have me do, sir?”

His voice was deeper and warmer than usual, and his hips shifted a bit, pressing into my hand.

“Let me… let me?” I stumbled, hoping he understood what my brain meant as it turned entirely to jelly.

One of Jeeves’s wings came up and pushed against my shoulder until I stepped back. He turned to face me and I could scarcely recognize this wanton creature as my usually composed valet. A quick flick of the eyes downwards and I knew he was as overcome as I was by this sudden turn of events.

“I say,” I said, a thought popping into my head, unprovoked, “you’re taking this all rather well. Did you suspect –”

“No sir, but… I had hoped,” he admitted. Then, “let me touch your wings, sir.”

I couldn’t deny him that, but my hands were as good as useless. I managed a nod, and he surged forwards, deftly working on undressing me from the waist up. He was so close to me now it’d have been a missed opportunity not to press a kiss to his mouth. He groaned and licked at my lips in a manner most peculiar until I realized he was _tasting himself._

“Good Lord, Jeeves,” I croaked. “Good Lord.”

“Indeed, sir,” he answered throatily, and took my frantically beating wings in both his hands.


End file.
